


Possibilities

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Belgariad/Malloreon Series - David & Leigh Eddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-18
Updated: 2003-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:46:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1637249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for anenko</p>
    </blockquote>





	Possibilities

**Author's Note:**

> Written for anenko

 

 

Winter was falling, bringing with it the cold and bitter winds and harsh rains. Even the Vale of Aldur, which was blessed by the God Aldur, could not escape the change of seasons. 

A woman sat within the safety and warmth of a cottage, watching the flames in the fireplace flicker with golden and crimson hues as it made the shadows across the walls shift into many intriguing shapes and contours. In her hands she held a yet unfinished mitten, and as her nimble fingers worked at it, there was a soft `click click' sound that accompanied the movement of her knitting needles. Occasionally, she would lay aside her knitting, and reach towards the large cradle, almost absently pulling the covers over the infants that lay within, then giving the cradle a gentle push. There was none of that vagueness in her eyes, however, which were either the most glorious shade of indigo or violet, depending on her mood; eyes that looked strangely out of place on an otherwise youthful face; eyes that held the wisdom of one who had seen many wars, many battles, many tears. 

These eyes now held the ultimate love and devotion as she picked up the two babies from the cradle, carefully holding them in her arms as she sang a lullaby that was no longer sang by any other living mother. It was soothing, yet beautiful in ways words could not describe, changing from melancholic to joyful from one moment to the next. She remembered that song from her own mother, who sang it to her while she still rested within her mother's womb. And as she sang, she remembered. She remembered tales of the most powerful and respected woman in the world, a woman that rulers and conquerors viewed with respect, yet a woman nonetheless, a woman who cried, laughed and loved like any other. 

She could have loved him, the man she met on the cold, hostile Isle of Riva. He was intelligent, wise and handsome. He liked her, and she liked him. He wouldn't bore her with his talk, not like all the others who tried to court her; and most of all, he could actually realize his dreams. Many men had spoken to her of their father's riches, and those young noblemen would always tell her how they would one day rule a country. They could hardly be credited with their fathers' riches, however, and as far as she knew, not one of those young fools had ruled a country. 

He was only a Baron; to rise from anonymity had taken him wisdom and competence. Oh, he was poised and collected; even during their first meeting, she had known he was like no other young man. She had been new to the world of romance at that time, and she had to admit he sparked certain feelings in her. It might not be love, but it certainly qualified as an adolescent crush. Even so, she knew her duty, and Destiny had compelled her to let him go. 

"I'm betrothed now." She had thought...perhaps he would have waited for her. A foolish fancy, and selfish, as she knew she would never agree if he had asked for her hand, but she had hoped that she had left more of an impression. 

"But candor compels me to admit that one word from you would put an end to my betrothal." She had found herself feeling unreasonably gratified; sometimes the little girl in her just wouldn't give up. 

"You know I won't say it." Not entirely true. If the circumstances had been different, she would have said it. And now...she could not. 

They simply were not meant to be. 

Still, the girl in her would not relent, and she couldn't resist kissing him. It wasn't her first actual kiss, being a simple quick brush of the lips, but it was enough for both of them to count the might-have-beens. She doubted she would have regretted choosing him. Sometimes the should-not-have-beens might not necessarily be bad. That was the little girl in her speaking again. 

She had met his wife before. He was already middle-aged, with the faintest traces of gray on his temples, and so was his wife, yet she remained an attractive woman. As for herself, she of course retained her youthful looks, and was beautiful. She wasn't exactly vain, at least she didn't think so at that time; she knew her own appeal. But when she saw that middle-aged graceful woman, she couldn't help feeling the slightest pangs of jealousy. She shouldn't, as she was the one who had turned down his informal proposal, and logic told her she had made the right choice in doing so. So her jealousy was a perfunctory thing, and she controlled it rigorously, to the extent that she didn't acknowledge her own feelings. 

They spent most of their time together, during those difficult times after her beloved sister's death. Those times made her wonder if she hadn't made the wrong decision after all when she rejected him. His wife had no interest in politics, preferring to remain in the background as a quiet but supportive lady of the household. He was a man of great ambition, although he wasn't one to flaunt his talents, and he needed someone who understood his dreams. His wife didn't, and his duties had drawn him away from his family. 

She did. She understood the delicate balance it took to handle politics; she knew what it felt like to be burdened by affairs of state. They had formed a bond, but even so, she knew that they were no longer what they might have been. There were times, when he would look out of the window into the tumultuous, raging seas, and she knew his head was filled with thoughts of laughter and children, hugs and gifts, and family reunions. He had what she did not have--a family. And that single difference between them had made them drift much further apart than the differences between him and his wife. 

There would have been mindless gossip; she knew that chambermaids and cooks loved nothing more than tales of impropriety between lords and ladies. But everyone knew Lord Brand, everyone believed in his integrity and loyalty, and there was no one who did not know the Sorceress Polgara. Who dared question her word? It was true; nothing had happened between them. Of course, there were the times when their eyes would meet inadvertently, and thoughts of what might have been would once again cross her mind. It was only faint regret with a tinge of nostalgia, but still...even now, so far away in the future, she would picture herself in the Hall of the Rivan King, with Daran and him; but this time, the laughter of the children in his mind would belong to her, and the Sorceress Polgara in her dreams was no longer alone, but part of a family. 

Foolish fancies. She had left him, and whatever their future together might have been, it was never realized. She had later loved another; truly loved Ontrose of Wacune, not the way it was with the man in Riva, not simply a girl's crush, but true love. But looking back, she couldn't help wondering if her first true love had been spawned from that adolescent crush after all. Ontrose shared his urbanity, his courage, his integrity. She had her first real kiss then; perhaps to make up for the one she did not have, almost a millennia ago. Ontrose shared his way with words; both knew how to flatter her; both brought out the little girl in her. 

Perhaps when she loved Ontrose, she was actually seeking for the love which she had left in Riva. 

Ontrose's death made her realize how futile love was. She was actually relieved that she had only truly loved once, and not twice. Father was right; a normal woman's life was not meant for her. 

"Pol," someone behind her said softly, gently. She looked up into her husband's sincere face, a face with rough skin that had seen many years of hard work and labour. A face without the handsomeness of her crush, a face which lacked the graceful features of her first love, but it was a face she loved nevertheless. 

He didn't have Kamion's urbane wittiness, he didn't have Ontrose's flair with flowery prose, and he lacked the exquisite manners that both men had. Yet he had what both did not--a gentle stability that made her feel safe, warm, secure. He had a sincerity that touched her heart; he would give up everything for her. Kamion and Ontrose would not. It was true that she had rejected Kamion, but Kamion would no doubt place the welfare of his country before her. Ontrose had chosen to give his life to defending his lands, chosen to submit to fate and the Prophecy. 

Her husband had died for her. 

"Pol." Kamion had called her that. That childhood nickname that she had insisted on using throughout the years. It was as if she never wanted to forget the man she had almost loved. 

Her eyes fell on that rose her husband had given her on their wedding day; Ontrose had loved roses, he had taught her to love them as well. And through that rose, the memory of Ontrose had remained, as it will as long as she lived. 

Perhaps it was true that she had loved Ontrose because of her memory of Kamion. She loved her husband because he had the qualities she saw in both Kamion and Ontrose. 

She also loved her husband for himself. She loved his down-to-earth practicality, his shyness, his effacing manner. These were what Kamion and Ontrose, both men of power and high status, did not have. 

She had almost loved Kamion; she had loved Ontrose and lost him. 

She loved Durnik, and he was the only one who had stayed, had chosen her before everything else. 

"You fell asleep just now." He tenderly touched the single white lock on her brow. "Perhaps you should go to bed; it's very late." 

"Perhaps I should," she agreed absently, her mind still filled with images of times long gone, of the stern majesty of the fortress of Riva, of the heart-rending beauty of Vo Wacune. Of Kamion's witty humour, of Ontrose's noble sacrifice. 

"Come then, Pol." Durnik gently lifted the twins from her arms; they stirred, but did not wake. 

She looked once again into her husband's eyes, and smiled. Gods, how much she loved this man. She could dream of what she might have been had she accepted Kamion's proposal, or what she might have become if the fall of Vo Wacune had not been fated, but deep inside, she somehow knew that neither Kamion nor Ontrose could offer her what she had now. 

He loved her, and he was here. 

And that was all that mattered. 

 


End file.
